Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck Read online

  “Vincenzo . . . It's time to go!” Blake said with the confidence of a male lion challenging another to a fight for domination with a roar and baring of teeth.

  “Signore Beck,” Vincenzo replied with a smile on his lips, “such a nice night for this.” He shifted the side of his scarlet coat slightly to reveal an old longsword. Vincenzo had been given the sword by his father when he was a young man coming of age in Siena, but in the end the sword had failed its charge during the Battle of Marciano in 1554 when Vincenzo was killed – sword in hand – at the tip of a Spanish soldier's blade. Both men drew their swords in silence. With nothing but the sounds of their feet to disturb the pigeons, they started towards each other. Vincenzo moved to strike, raising his sword high above his head. He struck hard, aiming for the sword to cut through Blake's ribcage and straight into his heart. Dodging the blow, Blake jumped, and with one foot on the stone column railing, he somersaulted past Vincenzo, landing right behind him. Before Vincenzo could steady his sword and turn around to face his opponent, Blake moved to strike. Blake knew that he was fighting a being whose long death offered a degree of skill, knowledge and experience which was poorly matched by that offered by Blake's short lifespan. He knew that he would not get many chances, if any, and that there was no glory or honor to be found in fighting fair. He would defeat Vincenzo by any means possible, and any chivalrous ideals would only bring about his own downfall in a battle like this. In one swift, flowing motion, Blake raised his katana before turning around and guiding the blade downwards. He drew the blade from left to right, seeking to cut Vincenzo in two from behind. In response, Vincenzo dropped to his knees and raised his sword over his head and down his back, letting the blade run along the length of his own spine. Then he shifted his balance and turned his torso to parry Blake's attack, the sound of the two swords meeting piercing the chilly November night. In the hope of finishing the fight right then and there, Vincenzo made his move. Still on one knee, but with his other leg stretched out, he turned and swept Blake's feet out from under him, sending Blake crashing down on his back. He landed with a muffled “Umpfh!” as Vincenzo sprang to his feet with a feline grace. In a series of movements flowing seamlessly into one, Vincenzo brought his sword back around. Then Vincenzo let his defenses give way for the strike, his sword looming in the night air above his head, about to be thrust down into Blake's chest.

  “Arrivederci,” Vincenzo whispered, as much to the shadows as to Blake. He leaned into the strike, letting his full weight drive the sword downwards. Lying on his back, Blake saw death’s reflection in an instant as the blade gleamed in the silvery moonlight.

  Marie had gotten into position. High up one of the park trees, she sat straddling a thick branch. Her aim had been on Vincenzo since the fighting started, but she found no reason to reveal herself or to draw attention to the fight by firing her rifle, which, although silenced, was not silent. That was until she saw the moonlight gleam in the polished blade with Vincenzo about to strike. As she pulled the trigger, she felt the force of the recoil, and she saw through the scope how the blade shattered and split as the bullet hit Vincenzo's sword just above the cross-guard.

  “You fucking coward!” Vincenzo bellowed, displaying the strange sense of betrayal he felt. He stumbled forwards, trying to regain his balance and recover from the attack. “You dare not even face me alone!?!” A small stream of smoke rose from the muzzle of the rifle as Blake quickly took advantage of Vincenzo's disarming. The distant ring of a bullet casing hitting the ground scarcely registered with Blake. Still lying on the ground, he kicked Vincenzo straight in the gut, sending him stumbling back. This left Blake just enough time to get to his knees and ready his sword. Vincenzo pulled a dagger from the folds of his coat and launched himself at Blake, knowing that he would have to end it before the rifle could be reloaded and re-aimed. As Blake saw Vincenzo coming at him, he heard the distant sound of a rifle bolt sliding and he knew that the fight had come to its end. With his dagger raised to strike, Vincenzo was just about to jump Blake when another bullet split the air. Flesh and bone were sent flying everywhere as the bullet ripped through Vincenzo's knee. What should have been a powerful pounce suddenly became an uncontrolled topple, and as Vincenzo fell to the ground, Blake struck. He drew his katana upwards, the blade cutting into Vincenzo underneath his left arm and running all the way through to his right shoulder. As his soul retreated from his dismembered body, Vincenzo looked up at Blake.

  “You'll never get me Beck . . .”

  “Vincenzo, let me enlighten you,” Blake replied. “We just did. Now have fun with the Hunters.”

  Vincenzo's body fell limp as Blake wiped his blade in the sleeve of Vincenzo's scarlet coat. Then Blake rose to his feet and sheathed his katana.

  It took a couple of minutes before Marie reached Blake.

  “So, I saved your life,” she started. “Now you owe me one, but I will settle for a cup of coffee and a kiss,” she continued with a smile.

  “Well, that's all you’re gonna get, sweetie. ‘Cause I still had to do all the hard work – what the hell was that all about?”

  “What?” asked Marie with a shrug.

  “I mean . . . his sword?” Blake paused. “Why not just shoot him in the head and be done with it?”

  “Honey, what fun would that be? And also, I wouldn't get to see you fight, all . . .” she searched for the word for a second or two. "What do you say? Macho?”

  Blake didn't reply. He just smiled at her and gave her the kiss she was due.

  They got into Marie's yellow Citröen and drove through the Paris night towards the Latin Quarter. In the silence that followed, they each battled the invading feeling that this night not only saw the end of Vincenzo, but also the end of them. Marie parked the car outside Blake's apartment, but they didn't go up. Instead they went just around the corner to their favorite late night café. Neither of them wanted to go to bed and end the night because chances were that Blake would already have to travel back to New York the next day. It was the day they had both been dreading.

  They sat in the café, each sipping their coffee and praying that they would never reach the bottom of their cups. However, despite their prayers, the café eventually closed and they had to go back to Blake's apartment. They didn't really sleep. They didn't even make love. They just lay there until morning broke, neither of them saying what they were both thinking. When the sun had made it above the rooftops, Blake got up and walked to the windows and drew away the curtains. Marie was still in bed, sitting halfway up, resting her back on a huge pillow. She had the sheets pulled up to her chin. She looked changed. She looked neither sly, nor dangerous – and she didn't smile, which she almost always did. Rather, she looked like a young girl stricken down by the profound sadness of death, guarded only by a shield of cotton.

  “So, I guess this is it?” Blake asked, staring out the window with his back to the bed. He knew that he couldn't say the words and look into her eyes at the same time. He simply didn't have the strength. “I'll be leaving now and who knows when I'll be back.”

  “Blake, you could put in for a transfer,” Marie parried his words in a vain attempt to save what they had together.

  “Sweetie, we both know that won't work. The agency doesn’t exactly encourage this, you know.”

  “But . . .” She tried, but it was no use. There were no words that would serve her. No words that could shield her from the truth, and deep inside she knew he was right.

  “I know. I want to keep seeing you too, you know. I love you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “But we'll have to keep a low profile and see where time takes us.” He paused as he turned around. “If we make this official, they'll probably just have one of us hunting in Outer Mongolia,” he said, hoping for a hint of a smile. There was no reward. “And I guess we both knew that it would come to this.” He tried to believe it himself. He didn't though, so he shrugged his shoulder in an attempt to excuse himself. He stood there looking at Marie in silence, and
she eventually took mercy upon him by finally rejoining the conversation.

  “Well,” she started, “at least give me another kiss and come back to bed.”

  IV

  As Blake put down the picture frame, he thought about the first couple of years after Paris. They had seen each other as often as possible, but it was hard. Neither Marie nor Blake had much free time, let alone vacations – both of them climbing the career ladder, advancing within the ranks of the agency. In the end, Blake had been the one to break it off when he had finally convinced himself that the pain of saying goodbye again and again, and not knowing when or where – if ever – they would meet again was greater than the joy of being together. But he still loved her, even to this day. He took out the picture of Marie and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his jacket that was hung over his chair.

  It was almost midnight now. Blake picked up the small envelope containing the card and razor blade and put it in his jacket pocket. He got up, put his jacket on and left his office, not bothering to lock the door behind him. The hallway outside was empty and the lights flickered as they switched on from the hallway motion sensor. As he reached his secretary's desk, he stopped and bent over it, picking up a yellow pad of Post-it notes and a ballpoint pen. “Dear Marcia, thank you for these last five years. You've been an ace. Have them pick me up at home in the morning. Take care,” he wrote. Then he walked away, not looking back once. He took the elevator down to the parking level where his white Jaguar E-type was parked in his reserved stall.

  Blake drove across the Brooklyn Bridge to his home on the waterfront of Brooklyn Heights. He parked the car at the curb and went up the stairs, holding his bundle of keys in his hand. He unlocked the front door and entered the stately hall of the old but newly renovated building. It was three floors of beautiful, perfectly styled home. Most people would have given their right arm to live in it, but Blake seldom had time to use it for anything other than sleeping. He hung his jacket on the coatrack by the door and unbuckled his belt. He took the picture of Marie and the small envelope from his jacket pocket and went upstairs to his study. Tall bookcases lined the walls from top to bottom. He picked up a bottle of whisky from the table in the corner and poured himself a glass before lowering himself into his favorite chair. He felt the leather embracing his body as he sat down. He sat there in silence, drinking his whisky, staring out into nothing.

  “I guess it's time,” he thought, having finished his drink. Then he got up and picked up the envelope, the picture of Marie and the bottle of whisky, leaving the empty glass behind. He went into the white-tiled bathroom adjacent to the master bedroom. He looked around in the same manner as when deciding whether or not to use the toilet before or after showering. He decided on the toilet and lifted the lid. Then he placed the whisky bottle and the envelope on the edge of the bathtub and the picture of Marie on the sink opposite it. He opened his pants and let them drop to the ground. As he sat down, he thought about the fact that people always seemed to do this kind of thing in the bathtub. Something quite undesirable, he concluded, having seen enough dead people to know what happens when all the muscles of one’s body relax as you enter death. “No one is going to find me floating like a great big raisin, marinated in my own filth,” he thought to himself as he took his belt from his pants and used it to fasten himself to the toilet to keep from toppling over. Then he took a great big swig of the bottle before grabbing the envelope. He took out the razor blade and looked at it. He shifted his gaze between the razor and the picture of Marie every other minute or two, interrupting the process only to take another drink. He repeated this for about half an hour, until the bottle was empty and he could feel the alcohol flowing through his veins, numbing his body more and more. Then he took the razor blade in his hand and slashed deep into his wrist. It didn't hurt as much as he had feared, at least not physically. Then he rested his arm on the edge of the bathtub, allowing the blood to run into the tub and down the drain. He sat there alone, the color fading from his skin and his mind gradually losing its grip on reality. He sat there and he died.

  CHAPTER 2

  - AIN'T NO GRAVE -

  I

  Dæth's mansion was built in the Jacobethan style typical of the early Victorian era, and the magnificent building held more than 150 rooms all together and sat on a well-kept estate that stretched far beyond the horizon. Dæth's carriage halted by the stairs that led to the front door and two servants immediately lay a stepping-stone in place in front of the carriage door. Another servant opened the door and Dæth stepped out, donning a black top hat and holding a silver-tipped ebony cane in one hand. He took no notice of the servants as he stepped onto the stone that kept his boots from the mud of the driveway. By the stairs, his butler – aptly named Elijah Butler – stood waiting patiently.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said as his master approached. “I trust you have had a pleasant journey. Mr. McCoy is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

  “Yes, thank you, Elijah. The journey itself was quite pleasant, though its object was not. However the battle was won and that is what matters – not whether it was pleasant or not,” Dæth said as he made his way up the stairs.

  “Indeed, sir,” Butler replied, following his master up the stairs at a fitting distance. Two guards opened the large double door that led into the hall, allowing Dæth to enter unhindered.

  “Has my wife returned?”

  “Yes, sir. She arrived early this morning and she bade me to tell you that all is taken care of.” Elijah paused for a second before continuing. “That is all she said, sir.”

  “That is fine, Elijah. I will talk to her in the morning.” Much to Dæth's dismay, the servant responsible for taking his coat had failed to do so immediately. Having finished his conversation with Elijah, Dæth shifted his voice to a more authoritative pitch.

  “Will you ever take my frock, you imbecile? Or will you have me stand here forever?” he yelled at the idle servant who gave a jolt as he was instantly pulled back from wherever his mind had wandered off to.

  “Yes, sir! I mean no, sir! I . . . I am sorry, sir!” the servant blabbered, desperately trying to remove Dæth's frock in a speedy, yet controlled and worthy manner, but failing miserably.

  “My apologies, sir. I will set him straight,” Butler said when the young man had finished removing the frock and had stepped away.

  “Yes, do that. I simply cannot comprehend the incompetence of some people. But in the end that is why he will spend eternity holding my coat and not the other way around.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” was Elijah's only reply, as he knew full well that his master’s intention was not to start a discussion about the competence of the people in the employ of the household.

  “Yes, go inform Mr. McCoy that I will be with him shortly, and have the maid lay out my white walking suit for the morning.”

  As Dæth walked up the stairs to his private chambers, Elijah bowed and turned to walk away. He headed into the drawing room, picking up a tray holding two porcelain cups and a matching pot of black tea from the kitchen on his way. When Elijah entered the drawing room, Mr. McCoy was sitting in one of the Rococo chairs that made up the lounge arrangement in the middle of the room. He knew not to sit in the chair next to the carved ivory chess set where a game was underway, as this was where Dæth usually sat. McCoy was impeccably dressed, wearing a suit of clothing also fitting the late nineteenth century, but which – contrary to Dæth's Victorian attire – was clearly of American heritage. His Stetson hat lay on a table nearby, and his dark hair was freshly combed to make sure that his hairdo bore no signs of him wearing a hat. When Elijah entered the room, McCoy got up.

  “Elijah,” he said, giving a friendly nod to the butler, who walked over and put down the tray on the lounge table.

  “Sir,” Elijah replied in a friendly tone, giving the man a slight bow. There was a short pause before McCoy took the conversation further.

  “Did he say anything when he ar
rived?”

  “Not much, sir, no. But he did say that the battle was won, and then he inquired to the presence of his wife, sir.”

  “Thank you, Elijah. I guess I'll just have to wait and hear the news straight from the horse's mouth.”

  “Sir,” Elijah replied, unsure of how to react to the way this American idiom resulted in his master being called a horse. But he decided to think nothing more of it, putting it aside as a cultural difference. The double doors to the hallway swung open and Dæth entered. He mimicked the movement of the doors with his arms, welcoming McCoy into his home. Dæth had left his jacket behind upstairs and the bare white shirt, vest and sash made him look much more relaxed and a lot less intimidating to Elijah’s eyes.

  “Harlan, my friend!” Dæth said, his arms open wide. “Welcome! I trust you to bring pleasant news, for such is much too scarce these days.”

  “I am pleased to say that I do, sir,” McCoy replied. As they sat down, he continued, “And I hope that you do not bear ill news yourself?” Elijah immediately began pouring two cups of tea and then turned to take two glasses and a decanter of what looked to be cognac from a nearby cabinet.

  “So, Mr. Beck has chosen to join us?” Dæth asked after a few seconds of contemplative silence.

  “Yes, sir. He should be in the Entrance as we speak.” Harlan paused briefly, before deciding to elaborate. “I have sent Virgil to greet him to make sure he gets a proper welcome.”

  “Fine. When the opportunity presents itself, please let Mr. Beck know that I would like to meet him here in person.”

  Harlan gave a smile and a nod as Elijah put the two glasses down next to either cup of tea.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” the butler asked.